


Enter

by gertrudeabernathy



Series: Keyboard [9]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: "Aprons" was a real tag!, Aprons, Dark, First Time, Homework, M/M, Sexual Fantasy, Sweet Derek, Underwear, What don't I know about aprons?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 04:15:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gertrudeabernathy/pseuds/gertrudeabernathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles looked down at Derek’s shoulder. The skin over the muscle where the bullet had passed through was absolutely flawless, even in that torrent of light. He leant forward to rest the weight of his head against the healed place, and started to move.</p><p>(Probably works OK as a stand-alone, too. More fanon-y than canon-y!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DevilDoll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilDoll/gifts).



> Gifted VERY IMPERTINENTLY to one of the great queens of the realm of fanfickery, from a nameless peasant out in the fields!! xx

Derek hadn’t given up on the old place - it just needed so much work that it was getting complicated to live there. So without discussing it with anyone first, he rented an apartment in town.

After a couple of weeks of sorting things out, he decided it was ready for Stiles to see. He rang him abruptly on a freezing, starless Monday night, made him write the address down, and asked him to come over. He thought the new place looked pretty good at night. The building had started out as some sort of factory, then had been left derelict for years, but recently it had undergone a modern conversion. Stiles’ expression when he walked in was perfect - appropriately amazed and impressed.

“Derek!” he said, staring at the corner next to the dining table, “you have - you own - an actual LAMP!”

“Two, even.” 

The big living room - with a dining area off to one side - was sort of aggressively normal-looking, with navy curtains and a neat navy modular lounge with red throw cushions, and next to it, lamp number two. It was a tall plain standard lamp with a white cloth shade, for anyone who happened to be lying on the lounge to read by. Derek's books were neatly stacked by size, spine out, in about ten thigh-high piles along one wall. In back, the apartment had two bedrooms, one smaller one with a desk and a double bed crammed into it for anyone to crash in if they ever wanted to, and a master bedroom, which was on a corner of the building, with two external walls. The color of those walls was a bit of a surprise to Stiles. He looked doubtfully through the doorway.

“It’s very yellow in here, isn’t it? Do you want it repainted?”

Derek shook his head. “It’ll be nice in the afternoons.” He had found a sort of blood-orange-colored quilt cover and pillowcase set, and the built-ins were white with mirror panels. It didn’t look bad, exactly, just different.

“That big window is kind of strange too. It’s pretty, but it’s so high up on that wall - you can’t really see out much on that side - just the top of the tree - and then on this side these windows are so narrow! It’s sort of like a jail or something.”

“Or a castle.”

“A CASTLE, no less.”

“You don’t like it.” 

“What?! Of course I like your castle, babe, who wouldn’t? It’s awesome! It’s - warm! And Allison will love the arrow-slits!”

“She might - they’d work. They open. You think it looks weird, but it’s good when the afternoon sun comes in. You’ll see. And it’s very private.”

“Well, I’m all in favor of privacy,” murmured Stiles, leering hideously. Derek looked to one side - a more demonstrative man would have shaken his head. Stiles stepped around and tapped him very softly on the cheek with two fingertips, and looked at him, searching. “And - you deserve somewhere like this. It feels safe, this whole place.”

“OK then. Good,” said Derek, satisfied, and went back to the kitchen, to self-consciously get a pre-made pitcher of iced tea out of the refrigerator. Stiles obviously thought the iced tea with its decorative bits of lemon and floating white half-grapes was hilarious, but he was trying to be careful of Derek’s feelings for once, so he drank it and bit his lip, until Derek rolled his eyes and said, “Go on, let me have it.”

“Oh - I was just wondering - which drawer do you keep your little gingham aprons in?”

Derek stared at him, and opened a tall pantry door, to reveal a hook with two neat black serge kitchen aprons hanging from it. 

“Fuck off!” shouted Stiles delightedly, till he started to think about it. Then he put his glass down and walked around the little kitchen island and went close to Derek and put his arms around him. 

“You got two aprons. For when someone else is helping you cook - when you are doing that with Isaac or someone.”

“Or someone,” said Derek softly into Stiles’ hair.

“You kill me Derek, you really do,” murmured Stiles. “How did I miss how ridiculous you are when we first met?”

“I didn’t have time to be ridiculous back then.”

Stiles hugged him tight, thinking that it wasn’t time that Derek had lacked: it was anyone to love him or even to speak to him kindly, or anywhere real to live, or any hope for the future - even enough hope to think about the prospect of preparing a meal for or with another human being. It moved Stiles to see what Derek was cautiously making himself capable of, now.

New patterns formed fast. Stiles found himself over at the apartment on Tuesday nights (for pack night) and Friday nights (for date night) and Saturday mornings (a new tradition of a coffee run while driving Isaac to work) and he didn’t get around to seeing the bedroom in the afternoon during the first few months that Derek lived there. 

Then, about six weeks before Stiles turned eighteen, there was an incident.

They had all relaxed a little - or Stiles had, at any rate. He was starting to thrive physically again, gaining back just enough weight that he didn’t look exhausted and sharp. He was eating better and even sleeping more, enough that he didn’t inevitably feel sick to his stomach from fatigue in the mornings when he was forcing himself to get up and go to school. There were nights when he managed to stay asleep for six whole hours in a row. His grades even went up a little. 

Then some fuck-wit lone-ranger no-code out-of-date low-life hunter announced his arrival in Beacon Hills by shooting Derek, early one sunny Saturday morning.

He and Stiles were leaning on the jeep in the car park next to Deaton’s, after they had dropped Isaac off for his shift. One minute they were arguing congenially about what they were going to do with the day, and drinking the complicated coffees they had picked up at Starbucks on the way over; the next minute Derek was jerked almost off his feet. He crashed back against the car door, taken completely off-guard. The second shot stung a line in the air very very close to Stiles’ wrist, and hit and spattered on the chrome ridge on the edge of the jeep’s roof - the bullet was mostly silver. An inch closer, and the shot could have taken Stiles’ hand off. The hunter never got a third shot off, because Derek had already reached him, and broken his arm above and below the elbow, as well as his nose. Derek walked back to the jeep, and after one look at Stiles’ face, called Chris Argent, who listened, asked if they were OK and instantly volunteered to collect and deal with the fuck-wit in question. Derek took the stupid hunter’s stupid gun and his stupid keys, and walked away without a backward glance. The guy was left sitting on the curb, bleeding and trying to breathe through his mouth. Derek put the things in the picnic cooler on the floor in the back seat of the jeep. He pushed Stiles into the passenger seat, drove a couple of blocks away from the busiest part of town, and then pulled over.

“Did any of that bullet go right through?” said Stiles, who had already awkwardly pulled his first-aid kit out of the glove compartment one-handed, presumably preparing to gouge through Derek’s flesh looking for metal fragments.

“All of it, I think.” Derek was trying to feel the back of his jacket, and sure enough there was a hole in the leather. “It just stings now, really. I think if there was anything in there still I would be feeling it. That guy really could not shoot for shit - or maybe it was his crappy homemade rounds.”

“Yeah,” said Stiles. “Fucking silver bullets, no less - what an asshole! I hope the next wolf that guy shoots at eats his liver, preferably while he is still alive and watching.”

The evident sincerity in Stiles’ voice made Derek nervous. He didn’t want to hear him suggest that they should drive back to the car park so that Stiles could hit the guy a dozen times with the tire iron to relieve his feelings. He cast about for some other course of action. “Do you want to go back to Starbucks and get a fresh coffee, or a hot chocolate or something?” asked Derek. “I dropped mine back there.” Stiles looked down at his hands and realized he still had his cooling coffee in his hand, visible bullet-graze and all.

“I - .” Stiles stared at his hands and the kit on his lap in sudden consternation. “I have no idea what I am doing.”

Derek got out quickly, walked around the car and opened the door. He took the cup out of Stiles’ hand and put it in the cup holder; he closed the first-aid kit and put it back in the glove compartment. Then he brought Stiles’ empty hands up to his mouth one at a time, and kissed the insides of his wrists, softly, carefully. He licked over the very narrow raw line from the bullet. Stiles’ eyes were huge.

“Fuck, Derek.”

“I know.”

“That second shot nearly - my wrist...”

“I’m so sorry - I wasn’t listening out. That guy’s heart was going like a rabbit’s, and he reeked. I don’t know how I missed it.”

“No, you were amazing. Thanks.” They were quiet for a minute.

“Do you want me to take you home?” asked Derek, trying to sound neutral about the prospect, as opposed to wretched.

“Do you mean to my - fuck no. Can we go back to yours, please? I want to sit somewhere quiet for a bit.”

When they got back to the apartment, Stiles said he wanted to do his homework. Derek could only stare as he fished his laptop out of his backpack and opened it up on the dining table, and steadily typed the second half of an essay, only stopping to dig references out of his notebook. He finished the conclusion and saved it all to a stick and emailed it to himself just in case, then went to the bathroom and washed his face a second time. He said yes to another hot chocolate that Derek made for him, and drank it as he set out a bunch of math problems on the table and started to work through them systematically, looking in the textbook from time to time to make sure he was on track.

Gradually the scratching of his pen started to slow down. Derek was trying to read - or pretending to try - on the big couch. He was mostly listening to Stiles’ breathing, which had hitched a few times in the first half hour, then had steadied out as he worked. Now Stiles’ heartbeat was slowing too. He had put his head down on his arms on top of his papers. Derek walked over to the table, trying deliberately to make some noise with his feet. Stiles moved slightly, enough to let Derek know he was aware of him. Derek touched him lightly on the back of his neck, just a light brush of the fingers.

“I don’t want to do any more of these now,” said Stiles.

“Come in the other room and have a rest,” said Derek. He took his hand and led him into the yellow room, which was brilliant with sunlight, glowing in a big agitated patch on the floor, broken up by the fluttering leaves at the top of the tall poplar outside. 

“Oh!” said Stiles, “it’s - it’s so bright in here.” He turned back to look at Derek in the doorway, and then pulled off his t-shirt over his head, and toed his way out of his shoes. He unbuttoned his old corduroy trousers so Derek could see a startlingly stylish pair of purple boxer briefs with a green trim through the open fly.

“Derek.”

“What is it?”

“Take off your shirt, please. We’re going to - be together, right now. Not in six weeks’ time, and not tomorrow when I’ve thought more about it, and not after I’ve talked to my Dad about how serious we are, or told him or anyone else any other fucking thing that is none of their business. Not one more day is going by, dude. Not another hour. We can’t defer anything we want into some imaginary future, because neither of us have any idea of what is going to happen from one minute to the next. So we’re doing it now.”

There was no possible argument. Derek folded instantly.

Because he was still half-soft when Derek eased his cords and briefs down his thighs, Stiles learned right away how careful and gentle and wet and welcoming his mouth could be, and then how eager his young wolf was to take Stiles’ stiff cock in, right to the back of his throat. Stiles stood swaying in the patch of light in the middle of the floor, gripping and leaning on Derek’s other shoulder, as he worked busily away. Derek came up to kiss him sweetly on the mouth every now and then, then knelt thirstily again to Stiles’ shining-wet rosy prick.

When that patch of light had moved across the floor a little, to the foot of the bed, it lit up Stiles’ skin where he lay back, as Derek carefully kissed his way down his torso to the mauve velvet of his sack, ignoring his twitching, already over-indulged cock, in favor of putting his face into the lean curves of his long, sensitive thighs. In that direct light, the tight curls above Stiles’ cock had a fiery brightness - they were almost ginger. Derek turned him onto his side and came thrusting between his slick thighs, whispering his name and stroking and holding his flank. There was no point not doing exactly whatever he wanted to that beautiful body, now. “Is it all right?” he asked, shivering as his still-half-hard cock slid wetly along between Stiles’ tight pucker and his balls.

“Sit up,” ordered Stiles, harsh, and climbed into Derek’s lap, kneeling over his thighs. “Do you really want to know what I want you to do to me?”

“Tell me,” he said.

“I want to do those things we just did again. And I want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck my ass hard till it hurts so much I cry. I want you to push into me and hold me down around my neck until I pass out and when I come to, I want you to still be fucking me.” Derek had dropped his eyes away. His hands were immobile on Stiles’ calves. “I want you to tie me up and leave me for hours and come in when you feel like it and fuck my mouth till I choke. I want you to push me down on the ground out in the woods and fuck me un-stretched, and leave me on the ground out there with your come running out of me.” Derek flinched, but Stiles only leaned in and whispered more and more of it into his ear. The list only got stranger - an unholy litany of things - some were just odd, and some were terrible - they involved Stiles being really hurt - injured - worse. It went on and on. When it ran out, Stiles leaned limp and exhausted against Derek’s chest. Derek had no idea what to say. 

“Sorry,” whispered Stiles after a while. “Sorry. I think I might be completely insane.”

“No,” said Derek. “Everyone has dark thoughts.”

“But why would I inflict them on you? And why today, and now?”

“For full disclosure, before we get into it?” Derek adjusted Stiles' posture, so he could stretch out a little in his careful embrace. “And for the sake of full disclosure on my part, I don’t want to do any of that stuff to you, ever, Stiles. I don’t think so, anyway. Well - maybe - I think I could see the point of one or two things you said - but not like that.” 

“I know. I know you aren’t like that at all.” 

“Is it the age-difference thing? I know you don’t want me to see you as a delicate flower that I shouldn’t touch. And maybe it is about this morning too. That was a terrible thing to happen, Stiles - terrible. I still can’t believe it. I have gotten stupid - I am too comfortable.”

“Shut up,” said Stiles, anguished. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Are you sure?” said Derek. He tried to nudge Stiles’ chin up so he could look him in the face, but he kept his eyes closed tight. “OK. But - if that’s because you are afraid of me saying I was going to break up with you because it’s too dangerous for you, don’t be afraid of that. I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Weren’t you?” asked Stiles softly, curiously, looking.

“No.” Derek stroked his back thoughtfully, unconsciously drawing a line between the sparse, just-perceptible pattern of four moles there. “Be with me or not - it’s up to you. I will accept it, of course, it would be fair, if you decide you want to live a more normal life, away from it all - it would even be a relief, in a way, if you feel you could extract yourself from all of our bullshit - but I am not going to make decisions for you. And I want this - us.” He leaned in and kissed him on the mouth.

“Oh, Derek - oh! You’ve gone all…” Stiles had reached for Derek’s cock, and found it wet and warm and soft.

“Are you surprised? Something you said back there seems to have slowed down my recovery-time! Maybe it was your generous offer to disembowel yourself for my amusement, or whatever the fuck it was you were saying, you crazy fucking teenage pervert.” And he suddenly kissed Stiles, quickly, peppering kisses all over his face, teasing him and licking his eyelids and even snapping his teeth at the tip of Stiles' nose, and pinching him hard on his ass and thighs till Stiles actually squealed, which made Derek jerk his face back in amazement for half a second to check what his expression was like. Whatever he saw made him throw back his head and roar with laughter. Stiles had never seen or heard anything like it. He just stared, open-mouthed.

"Derek, you are even crazier than I am!"

"I've had longer to work on it," said Derek, grinning.

“But - I have never seen you do that before - ever!”

“I guess you never made the right noise before.” 

Stiles went shy, blushing hard and smiling. “All right - come on. Make me make another new noise, then.”

“Your wish is my command.”

“That’s for genies, not werewolves! Oh, oh, fuck, Derek - “

“Can you take another one already?” whispered Derek into his red, open mouth, testing the waters, so to speak.

Stiles panted and cried out, over and over, moving helplessly, loose-limbed, graceful.

“Up you come then. Take your time - slowly, slowly, be careful - oh Jesus, Stiles, honey - there you are.”

Stiles’ face was wet. The sunlight blazed and moved all over Derek where he sat at the head of the bed, leaning back on the wall, bracing his lover’s trembling body with his big hands. 

“You OK?” Derek asked breathlessly. “Are you still with me?”

Stiles looked down at Derek’s shoulder. The skin over the muscle where the bullet had passed through was absolutely flawless, even in that torrent of light. He leaned forward to rest the weight of his head against the healed place, and started to move.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you dear readers, who have finally gotten to the end of this series!! Any and all feedback gratefully read - we are all writing messages in bottles, yes? xxx


End file.
